


Forevermore

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: CW: Primrose, Canon Compliant, Cuddling, F/F, Femslash, IT'S GAY, Nonsexual Nudity, Not Explicit or Sexy But It's Super Close Dude, trauma stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 15:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15888492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: "Thou may speakest to me, if it helpst thou to heal," she promises."I cannot expect you to carry my burdens," Primrose says."Mayhap not," H'aanit admits. It feels sour in her mouth. "But permitteth me to try."





	Forevermore

**Author's Note:**

> primrose: kiss me h'aanit  
> h'aanit: wow. gayeth

H'aanit has business in Stillsnow. A woman named Susanna, she says, is who she needs to be seeing. But it's dark, and too late to do any visiting once they arrive in Stillsnow, so Alfyn gets them a meal at the tavern and two rooms at the inn. They're small and musty-smelling and the bedframes creak with the weight of all the quilts and furs, but nobody's in a mood to complain after all that walking. One by one the party separates into their various rooms— the beds are meant for one, not two, so there's rock-paper-scissors over who gets the bed and who gets the floor, rolling out bedrolls, changing into nightwear, and finally retiring until the inn is quiet.   
  
Primrose stepped out for a walk after dinner. She'd said it was to clear her head, and H'aanit believes her. H'aanit is a hunter, but even if she weren't, she could tell that Primrose has seemed distracted since they got to Stillsnow. H'aanit let her be; Alfyn cheerily called to her to stay safe out there and try to get at least some shuteye since they'll be up early in the morning. And the evening goes on and they clean up from their late dinner and unpack and go to bed and Linde stretches out in front of the fireplace in one of their rooms and lets Tressa use her as a pillow and H'aanit lingers on the sofa in the lobby silent save for the low crackle of the hearth, tying fletching onto tomorrow's arrows, and Primrose has not returned.  
  
H'aanit's eyes grow bleary and her hands grow clumsy. She stands up and stretches and feels the joints in her back pop, and she's tossing another log on the fire and poking it apart so it makes the fire brighter when the door opens.   
  
Cold air makes the hair on her neck stand on end. Primrose shuts the door behind her and flurries fall on the mat. She shakes the snow off her coat, knocks it off her shoes.   
  
"You're up late," she tells H'aanit. "You didn't need to wait for me."  
  
"I wasn't," H'aanit replies. "But it gladdens me to see thou returnest safely."  
  
"Mm." She leaves her wet shoes by the door and goes to stand by the fire. She doesn't quite look like she fell into a lake, but pretty close. H'aanit's brow furrows.   
  
Primrose glances her way. "Don't worry about me," she says. "I'll be fine."  
  
"Thou art half-frozen," H'aanit says.   
  
"Perhaps I wandered a bit longer than I'd thought I would," Primrose admits with a wry smile at the fire. Her fingers are blue-tinged and wrinkled. "It's been a while since we were in the Frostlands, you know. I'd forgotten how the snow gets to you."  
  
"The fire will doest thou no good if thou remaineth in wet cloth," H'annit says. "I beseech thee, dear friend."  
  
Primrose looks at her hands, the wet, heavy knit of her sweater, and blinks. "Ah," she remembers. Then she sends a teasing smile H'aanit's way. "Are you telling me to strip?"  
  
H'aanit clears her throat. "On mine honor, I will not look." She will not. She will _not_.  
  
She pulls the thick pelt cape from where she wears it over her shoulder and rests it around Primrose's, for all the good it does. "Where didst thou rest thine pack? I shall retrieveth something to—"  
  
"Don't touch it," Primrose says sharply— perhaps sharper than intended. H'aanit freezes midway to the door leading to the rooms.   
  
Primrose sighs. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap."  
  
"'Tis quite alright," H'aanit promises. She hesitates, wondering if she should, perhaps, get something from her own clothing instead— but maybe that would be too much, too forward. She hesitates long enough that out of the corner of her eye Primrose peels off her sweater, her blouse, her skirt, her stockings. More layers than she's used to, H'aanit has heard her say when they're about to enter the Frostlands, but it's either that or freeze.   
  
She adds her chemise to the pile. It's not particularly damp like the rest of her clothing, but it's chilled, and can't be too comfortable to wear. She pushes the bundle into H'aanit's hands.   
  
"Could you hang them by the fire in our room for me," she says, her voice sounding strangely hoarse. "Try not to wake anyone up."  
  
H'aanit nods. She'll bring an extra blanket when she comes back, or maybe two, and tries to say this, but her voice doesn't work.   
  
She is a hunter. Hanging the clothing in front of the fire is a cinch— she doesn't so much as disturb a floorboard. It's a little more difficult working around Linde and Tressa, but she succeeds, and leaves it there to drip-dry on the stone step around it. She removes the top two blankets from the empty bed and bundles them in her arms to take with her.  
  
When she returns, Primrose is curled up on the sofa wrapped in the thick pelt. It's not quite big enough to use as a blanket, but she's managed to do so. She barely looks up when H'aanit enshrouds her in two more thick quilts. But she does sink further into the warmth, burying her nose in the slight musty smells of the quilts.   
  
"I'd like to ask one more thing of you, H'aanit," Primrose murmurs.  
  
"Anything," H'annit promises.  
  
"My hair," Primrose says. "Take it down?"  
  
H'aanit nods. She sits on the sofa next to Primrose. "This task may involveth… touching," she says. "Dost thou permitst me?"  
  
"I know," Primrose says. She smiles gratefully, just a little. "Thank you. Go ahead."  
  
H'aanit is careful. Primrose does her hair simply enough that H'aanit doesn't need direction to figure it out. Soon she's gently carding her fingers through it to clear it of tangles, letting it fall in waves down Primrose's back.  
  
Primrose sighs. "And I thought Sunshade was bad," she mumbles. "At least I never have to go back there."  
  
H'aanit frowns. "'Tis being in this town that botherst thou so?"  
  
"I thought it wouldn't, but it has," Primrose admits. "I thought a walk around in the snowy air might clear my head, but it didn't."  
  
H'aanit nods. "Thou may speakest to me, if it helpst thou to heal," she promises.  
  
"I cannot expect you to carry my burdens," Primrose says.   
  
"Mayhap not," H'aanit admits. It feels sour in her mouth. "But permitteth me to try."  
  
Primrose is quiet for a while. She's scrubbed her makeup off; H'aanit can see chapped lips and tired, sunken eyes usually carefully concealed. Primrose wears makeup like hunters wear war paint, drawing upon the blood red and painting it across her mouth. She paints it like a brightly-colored warning to stay away that H'aanit sees on yellow jackets and poisonous butterflies, red framing the white of her teeth— it sends up a flare to predators and yet tells them I'd like to see you try.  
  
"Last time I was here," Primrose says. "I think was when the party had split."  
  
"Aye," H'aanit recalls. H'aanit had had other things to attend to; Alfyn had gone with Primrose and brought Ophilia and Therion with him with the promise they'd meet back up later. H'aanit had spent that time hunting, prowling with Linde through the snowy woods and enjoying the time to herself. S'warkii wasn't far off. She could've visited, if she'd minded a two-day trip there and back. But she didn't— surely the villagers would worry if she were to return so soon, without Z'aanta, after she'd promised she'd only return with him in tow. Still, it'd been a nice break, and she'd hauled back a bear that she'd sold for a nice sum to the Stillsnow butcher.  
  
"I'd tracked one of the Crows to this town," Primrose tells her. "Rufus, the Left Crow. I pretended to be one of his prostitutes. I snuck into the mansion. And I killed him like I've killed bandits and beasts on the road that led me here, and left his body to rot and stain the carpet of his chamber."  
  
H'aanit is quiet. Primrose's voice trembles as she says this, and she pulls the blankets tighter.   
  
"I don't regret it," she says. "He deserved to die."  
  
"Aye," H'aanit tells her.  
  
"It felt good," she says. "I knew I'd done the right thing. But it scared me, how _good_ it felt. It still does."  
  
Primrose shivers. H'aanit carefully pulls the blankets tighter. Primrose's shoulders shrink, like she's trying to cocoon herself even smaller in the shroud of quilts.   
  
"Maybe the cold here is just fucking me up," Primrose mutters. "I've never handled the cold well. I'm too used to the Sunlands."  
  
"Art thou still chilled?" H'aanit asks.  
  
Primrose nods.  
  
H'aanit stands. "I willst retrieveth another quilt," she says. She's halfway off the couch when Primrose takes her wrist.  
  
She's let the blankets fall off her shoulder. Her lips and nail beds are still tinged with a dusty purple. H'aanit slowly sits back down. Primrose doesn't let go.  
  
"Stay," she whispers. She moves until she's straddling H'aanit's lap with H'aanit's thick white pelt around her shoulders. "Remind me that I'm not alone anymore."  
  
H'aanit's hands rest on Primrose's waist. "I am here," she murmurs. "Forevermore. For as long as thou shalt have me."  
  
"Kiss me," Primrose whispers.   
  
H'aanit does. Her lips are unpainted, warm under H'aanit's. Her skin is bare. H'aanit's hands hold her steady but do not roam— they never do, because H'aanit never lets them.  
  
Primrose's hands rest around H'aanit's neck. H'aanit's pelt is big enough that it hides Primrose's body from view, should some accidental voyeur wander out of their room to get a midnight snack. But H'aanit is no voyeur— Primrose wants her there, wants her hands on her waist, wants to taste her lips.  
  
They pull away. H'aanit breathes; Primrose's lips wander to her cheeks, under her eye, the bridge of her nose.   
  
"'Tis late," H'aanit whispers.  
  
"Aye," Primrose murmurs.   
  
"Do not lose thyself, Primrose," H'aanit tells her. "Art thou certain this be what thou needst?"  
  
"So kind of you to look out for me," Primrose teases. But she stops anyway, lets her shoulders slump. Her head rests on H'aanit's shoulder.  
  
"Hold me closer, H'aanit," she murmurs. H'aanit does, letting her arms snake beneath the blanket to wrap Primrose in an embrace. Primrose breathes and rests her hands on H'aanit's chest, her head heavy like she suddenly feels very tired.  
  
"'Tis late," H'aanit says again. "Art thou still cold?"  
  
"I don't know if I'll ever be warm again," Primrose murmurs. "I'm tired."  
  
H'aanit wraps her in the blankets once more and picks her up. It's easy— H'aanit has hefted things far heavier than Primrose, but she carries Primrose carefully, and makes sure her steps are silent and steady as she carries them back to the room. Nobody's stirred even a little; the night is late and Tressa and Ophilia are heavy sleepers. Primrose stands on her own two feet and lets H'aanit take the two outer blankets to add back to the bed. She keeps the pelt pulled around her shoulders, a layer of protection against the night.   
  
"Don't tell me you're going to stay up all night," Primrose tells her, her voice a soft murmur, barely audible over the crackling of the fire in the room.   
  
"I could," H'aanit shrugs, even as she joins Primrose in between the sheets. "At times, need ariseth that I stayen up for days— during the hunt, there is oft no time for rest."  
  
"Not tonight, though," Primrose says. She kisses H'aanit's jaw and H'aanit the bridge of her nose. "Tonight, rest with me."  
  
"If it keepst thou warm," H'aanit promises.   
  
"I don't know what it'll take to get me warm again," Primrose repeats. "If I ever will be."  
  
"'Tis so," H'aanit says. "But willst thou permitten me to try?"  
  
H'aanit can't see her face, but she feels Primrose's smile against her skin as she shifts closer, tucking herself into H'aanit's negative space.   
  
"Aye," Primrose hums. "It can't hurt."


End file.
